


The Wizard War Affair

by animefreak



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, The Man From UNCLE - Fandom
Genre: Gen, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-29
Updated: 2011-05-29
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animefreak/pseuds/animefreak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Return of the Man From UNCLE, Solo's life has taken a turn for the better, but the evil tide rising in the magical world of England is touching his new life and possibly that of his old partner. What will the wizard's war cost Solo and Kuryakin? What will Illya learn about himself that he's hidden away for all these years?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Xover: MFU/HP Universe

PG-13 (so far so good)T? (I get confused with the new ratings. So far, not even bad language.

A year and a half after the Return of the Man from UNCLE something evil in England is using what is left of THRUSH for its own ends (1983)

Angst in places.

Disclaimer: Neither the Potter universe nor the MFU one belong to me. Drat. Not for profit. Will replace all characters where I found them … just as soon as I remember where that was …

The Wizard War Affair

London, November 1985

Act One: "So, he wants to make certain I'm all right?"

"Mr. Kuryakin, you have a visitor."

The blond head bent over a new design did not look up.

"Mr. Kuryakin, I know you don't see people except by appointment, but she insisted I give you this." The very new to the staff assistant set a business card on the desk and vanished out of the office, closing the door carefully behind her.

Illya Kuryakin released his breath in something like a sigh, looked up from the design he wasn't really seeing and picked up the card. Solo Security and a phone number.

He shuddered and trembled all at once. Dammit. The last thing he needed in his life was a call to arms from his ex-partner. He started to shred the card, then stopped. "She insisted I give you this." Something had happened. He slipped on his kidskin loafers and went out to meet this "she".

He stopped in the shadow of the doorway leading from his private stairway to his private office and took in the woman waiting for him. She was short. Dark hair framed her face in light, spiky curves. The face was almost elfin, pointed at chin and nose, the cheekbones very prominent, the eyes wide and well spaced. Enveloped in a cloak of soft wool, only the ankles and feet of her stylish high-heeled boots showed beneath the deep gray sweep of fabric. Her quick dark eyes were taking in everything around her as she turned slowly, admiring the entry hall.

She stopped as she spotted the doorway. Previously closed, the shadowed opening first drew her attention, then her over to it. "Mr. Kuryakin, I presume?" Her voice was soft, touched by a fading English accent.

Illya stepped out of the shadows, his pale eyes searching her face. He did not take the offered hand, though he noted she withdrew the offer as gracefully as she had made it. "Why are you here?" He was gruff, almost offensive.

"I'm waiting for Napoleon to join us. He said to send up the card; that `Vanya' might not allow me to meet him otherwise." Her smile held mischief, inviting him to share her amusement.

"What does he want?" He kept the façade in place, shutting the inner door on the dozen questions he wanted to ask. Was he truly so pathetic that he wanted to drink in Solo's life, to vicariously be a part of that life?

She regarded him for a moment, her head canted slightly to the right as she searched his face for something. "To make certain you're all right," she answered carefully. "There's –" she stopped, searching for the right words. "Something – dangerous --- It should not involve you," she hurried on,  
forestalling his response. "But it does. Possibly because of your ties to Napoleon. Possibly because," she hesitated again, her eyes searching his face for an answer to her own worries. "Possibly because you are you." She seemed to realize that this was not a good answer.

Illya's face was stone, giving away nothing of the turmoil beneath the surface. Napoleon had finally deigned to show an interest in him again and he was – was what? Annoyed? Angered? Stupidly praying that whatever brought Napoleon back into his life would make him stay this time? Gods, he was such an idiot. Napoleon had a life. A woman, however unlikely this one seemed, to share that life with. What did he need a surly, isolationist Russian clothing designer for?

"So, he wants to make certain I am all right? I am. Now, I have work to do." He turned to retreat. Too late.

Napoleon Solo made an entrance with his usual impeccable timing. A dark cloak matching the woman's swirled about his tall figure. White was beginning to streak the hair at his temples, otherwise, it was as dark and full as ever. There were a few more lines at the corners of his eyes. They crinkled up when he  
smiled as he was doing now. He met the blue glare of Illya's gaze full on and refused to be dismayed by it.

"Illya. It's good to see you." He crossed the floor, removing gloves from his hands and reached out to the Russian. His hands were warm against his ex-partner's cool fingers. "You are all right?" The question was sharp. What did he see that no one else saw?

Illya retrieved his hand and nodded. "This way." Defeated by the need to know what was going on, he led them up the stairs to his office. Safely behind the big dark desk, he could face the man who meant so much in his life. "What do you want?" he asked again.

Napoleon slowed as he sat down, opening his cloak to reveal one of his exquisitely tailored suits. "Want? I wanted to see my old friend. I know we parted somewhat less than amicably. I was all for dashing back into places I wasn't wanted and you were content to return to this," he waved a hand to  
indicate Vanya's elegant halls. "I'm sorry."

Illya felt like he'd been hit hard in the solar plexus. Napoleon Solo, man of the world, covert agent extraordinaire, bane and illumination of his life, had just apologized. Illya's gaze flickered to the woman who was standing by the window and back. "For what?" he managed to ask curiously.

"For not being less selfish. For being smugly self-satisfied and for thinking one can go back," Napoleon answered quietly. "I've found out the hard way that you can't. But I can ask if we can move forward."

At a loss for thought, much less words, Illya betrayed his unease by ringing for one of his assistants and ordering refreshments. He looked toward the woman. "Tea?"

"Russian?" she countered hopefully.

"If you wish."

"Oh, I do. It's been – a while since I've been anywhere I could get it well done. Thank you."

Silence fell between them. Napoleon seemed content to just watch the old friend sitting across the desk from him. Illya, pulling his attention from Napoleon, recognized the tension of the woman's occasional glances out the window. He knew that alertness, the knowledge that she was expecting … no, not expecting, but watching for something "just in case". The view from the window was not inclined to capture the attention unless something was going on in the street. He shot a sharp look at Napoleon who returned it without concern.

"What is going on?" Illya demanded.

Napoleon traded glances with his wife again and sighed. "Quite a lot I suspect you would not want to know. Mostly I just needed to assure myself you aren't involved."

"And then see if we can keep it that way. By the way, I'm Roxana." She joined them at the desk, removing her gloves as she took the seat next to Napoleon. Ever alert to details, Illya saw her hands marked her as older than he had thought. Her nails were clipped short and he could see that several of the fingers had been broken and not set quite straight. Another ex-agent?

"One of us?" he asked cryptically.

Napoleon let his gaze rest on Roxana for a moment. "No. Not one of us as you and I were. But she's known some –"

"Difficult times," Roxana supplied. She met the Russian's gaze and did not waver. "My background is – odd, even next yours and Napoleon's. It is my hope we can keep you safely out of whatever peculiarities are headed our way. We needed to be certain they had not found you – al – rea –dy." Her head swung toward the single window as though drawn by some other sense. "Napoleon --"

She was moving across the room as she spoke, gripping a gently carved wooden stick in her left hand. Illya was aware of a distant pressure, an echo of something he'd felt other times with Napoleon. The window glowed. She stood there for a long moment, as though assuring herself that something would --  
hold?

"Mr. Kuryakin, please tell me there's a back way out of here," she broke the growing silence around them.

Her voice startled him out of his focus on the window. With a resigned sigh, he returned to the disturbed world of Vanya. He moved to a section of wall obscured by a muted tapestry. Reaching behind the hanging, he triggered the doorway it concealed. "This way."


	2. Chapter 2

Act 1 Part 2: "The Leaky Caldron?"

Napoleon was through the doorway almost before Illya finished speaking, pulling the smaller man with him and letting the door slide closed before Roxana moved away from the window.

"Napoleon!" Illya couldn't believe the other man was abandoning his wife to get his ex-partner to safety. How had he become the innocent involved?

"Roxana can take care of herself. You're the one in danger. Get us out of here." The larger man stood back against the wall to let Illya pass him.

Not knowing what else to do, the smaller man took the lead down to the tiny, exclusive parking area under Vanya's. Once there, he caught Napoleon's arm and jerked him to a stop. "What is going on?" For just a moment, the weariness of their past life showed in the other man's face. He reached out and ruffled the shaggy blond hair, a smile warming his face.

"I had a succession of nightmares, all of them centered on you. Roxana insisted we make certain that they were just that, nightmares." He tried to pass it off lightly, praying the other man would not pursue this aberrant behavior. He'd forgotten what it was like to have the Russian around, to know the strength that flowed from the younger man was there to rely on. It was addictive.

"Nightmares?" There was a world of disbelief in that one word. Illya knew there was more to it than that when Napoleon's eyes dropped. "Napoleon." He watched his ex-partner scan the parking garage and pointedly not look back up at him. "Napoleon?" The dark eyes met his and looked away.

"There's a lot that's happened in the last two years. I was angry when you didn't want to come back, you know that."

"Yes."

"Then I got a pat on the head and shown the door. `Sorry, but not much place for you here.' What a laugh. They call us in to clean up their mess and then turn us out again as old fogies. Then I was really angry." A faint smile curved the Russian's lips. He could imagine Napoleon angry.

An answering, somewhat rueful smile lit Napoleon's face. "I went West. I figured San Francisco or Los Angeles would do. Beautiful women, maybe a stint as a private investigator, something would turn up."

"Something did," Illya noted.

Napoleon's face warmed. "Roxana. Not my type. The moment I met her, it was as though I'd been waiting for her all my life. She was –" He stopped with a frown and really looked at Illya for the first time in a very long time. He snorted softly. "Wouldn't think that could happen twice in a lifetime, would you?" he said softly. Instinct won over breeding and worry as Napoleon reached out and drew the other man into his arms.

Illya stiffened. Not that he really wanted to be anywhere else particularly, but – but – oh, my what a long line of "buts" there were to melt away in the warmth and welcome of that embrace.

"Children, I know it's been a long time and I'm very happy you've finally managed to – say what needs to be said, but there are a number of extremely annoyed types waiting for us to exit in a mundane fashion. I suspect we need to be a bit less than mundane."

Illya jerked away from Napoleon and whirled to stare at Roxana. She looked tired, but her smile was gentle, welcoming. How had she gotten here without either of them hearing her?

"Napoleon?" He wondered how many more inflections he could put in the man's name before he ran out of them.

Napoleon held out his hand to his wife. "Sure you want to do this? That's a really fast little car over there." He nodded to one of Illya's luxuries.

Roxana looked for a moment, then nodded. "All right. It will be less likely to elicit comment. Let's get moving." She slid into the back seat, leaving the front and the driving to the two men.

A quartet of elegantly black clad young men scattered out of the path of the car. They displayed an excellent grasp of profane English to express their dismay at being out gunned, so to speak. One in particular caught Illya's eye. Flaxen hair fanned out around an aristocratic face as the young man leaped for safety, stumbled to his hands and knees and looked up. They locked gazes for as the car sped past.

Lucius Malfoy scowled at his scuffed shoes and scraped hands. The Master had sent them to capture the muggle designer. Lucius wondered if the Master knew the vain little designer that was so important to Roxana Logarin's American husband was something more than a stupid muggle. He answered that question with a mental shake. Of course, the Master knew. Lord Voldemort knew everything worth knowing.

The Master would not be happy with them for missing this chance to capture the designer. The handle on the husband that he wanted had eluded them. But not for long. Once the Master had that handle, the woman would soon fall to their desires. With a sneer at the complaints of his companions, he straightened his attire and walked away. Soon enough he would have what he needed, what his  
Master wanted.

Still, there was something in the icy gaze of the small blond man that struck a chord within him. There was more there than met the eye. Perhaps when Lord Voldemort was through with the muggle he would ask if he could explore the intuition he had. Assuming there was anything left to work with, of course.

>>>>>>

After a few minutes of dashing to safety, Illya asked where they were going. He was not surprised when Napoleon turned to look at the woman. Roxana's gaze was hazy, then sharpened. "Diagon Alley."

'Diagonally?' Illya repeated mentally.

Napoleon nodded and gave Illya directions as they slowed to a pace less likely to get them stopped for speeding. The directions took them into a less frequented part of town where the little sports car stood out like the proverbial sore thumb. Illya did not voice his misgivings as he parked it on the street and they got out, Roxana bringing up the rear. Again the woman indulged in her faintly Latinate mutter. Illya looked around and stopped. He looked past Roxana, then up and down the street. His car was gone. He garnered another mischievous look as she linked arms with Napoleon and the resisting Russian.

"You want explanations?" She was very glad he didn't have anything approaching the evil eye. "Then come along."

"Where are we going?"

"The Leaky Cauldron," Napoleon supplied the answer as they walked up the street to a dingy, unappetizing storefront.

As they walked under the swinging sign, Illya could suddenly see a cheery painting of a witch's cauldron sitting over a fire and the name of the establishment written around it. He lost the vision as they pushed through the doorway.

He hated the sensation of conversations stopping as he entered a room. Instinct kept him behind the other two. An extremely ugly trio of old women suddenly shrieked and cackled, the oldest and ugliest hitching herself off a stool and dashing over to give Roxana a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "Roxy, ducks, it's been ages," the harsh voice grated. Then she leaned toward Roxana, dropping her voice. "Heard u-no-oo got ye, I did."

Roxana gave a gentle laugh and shook her head. "You really should know better than to believe all you hear, Auntie. I'm a great deal more resilient than that. Bugger You-Know-Who," she finished rudely. The hags went off in a spate of laughter again as Auntie went back to her seat and Roxana lead them deeper into the – pub?

A tall elegant gentleman, fading red hair hanging over his shoulders; beard already heading toward his waist and blue eyes sparkling behind his wire rimmed glasses, stepped up in front of her next.

She looked up. "Albus. Glad you're here. Napoleon Solo, Albus Dumbledore, an old friend of the family."

The two men took their time looking each other over and evaluating before they shook hands and nodded. The sharp gaze found Illya doing his best "I'm not here" imitation behind the larger man.

"And this is?" Dumbledore inquired.

Roxana turned slightly, still smiling. "Illya Kuryakin. My husband's best friend and the reason we're here."

Nothing of the shock running through Illya's existence showed in his face. Long years of not revealing anything to anyone stood him in good stead just now. Best friend. Once he had thought – but then the world changed and he changed with it. Did Napoleon still --? He chanced a glance upward and saw the warmth in the dark eyes, coupled with worry. Suddenly there was a warm spot deep inside the arctic chill he had harbored for so long.

Illya turned his attention back to this Dumbledore character, discovering that the older man's gaze could be very disconcerting.

"You have been with the Romany."

It was a statement, not a question. It took Illya a moment to realize the man had spoken in the language of those most of the world called "Gypsies". He nodded, thinking it would be rude to ignore the comment.

"Yes, I can see why. You are most welcome here, Mr. Kuryakin, although I cannot guarantee that you will remain safe. The world is very dangerous these days." Dumbledore turned his attention to Napoleon and Roxana. "You are both welcome here, as is your friend. I would not count on safety, of course, but then who can?"

"Not many. There was a small committee at Vanya's just as we left. I believe I saw a Malfoy in the crowd. Arrogant little sod." Roxana sounded vicious.

"Yes. I believe it. You're not harmed?" There was concern in the older man's voice.

"No. We surprised them," she assured him.

That got a smile. "Then go on through, I'm certain you've earned some rest. Do avoid Nocturn, of course."

With a nod, Roxana led the two men on through the establishment to an alley. At the blank brick wall marking the end of the alley, she reached out with the stick Illya had noted before and touched several bricks in turn. Illya discovered that Napoleon had a firm grip on his arm as the bricks began to move.

Within the space of a minute, there was an opening in the wall large enough to accommodate the three of them. Beyond it he could see a bustling street of shops and oddly dressed people. They stepped through onto the street. Illya turned to watch the opening shift back into a wall. Part of his mind was turning over the degree of technology needed to make the wall work. The rest of his mind was taking a deep breath and admitting that he hadn't a clue exactly how the wall did that, nor was he entirely certain he wanted to know.

Illya wasn't precisely happy with the amount of attention the three of them were getting as they set off down the street. The number of pointy hats with wide brims was unnerving. Watching so many of the denizens of the street stop, stare and then whisper to each other was not reassuring either. He resolutely went along with his – friend and Roxana, ignoring the whispers.

They came to a comfortable looking place that seemed to be an inn. Roxana led them over to the desk and signed them in. As they stood there, Illya became aware of a presence next to his left leg. He looked down.

Wide blue eyes stared up at him out of a chubby, somewhat dirty face. One plump hand held a miniature version of the pointed hats the adults were wearing onto the little boy's curly haired head. His mouth was open in awe.

"Yes?"

The eyes widened. "Are – are you really a Muggle?" the child asked.

Roxana stiffened, then turned and looked down at the little boy. Her look softened and she squatted down next to the child. "What do you know about Muggles?"

"They eat witch babies," he told her seriously.

Roxana sighed. "No, they don't."

"No?" he asked, disbelief writ large on his cherubic face.

"No."

"You sure?" he demanded with a frown.

She laughed. "Yes, I am sure. My husband has been friends with a Muggle for years and years and years, and not once has that man eaten a witch child – or any other children."

"Oh." The boy looked up at Illya again, his hat falling off his head this time. "Not at all?" There was a wistful note to his voice.

"Sorry. No."

"You're not frightening at all then. I have a rat," he announced proudly.

"Joshua!" The little boy's very curly haired mother swept the little boy off fussing as they went about his talking to strangers.

"Muggles don't eat children," he pronounced very clearly for quite a number of people to hear.

"Well, of course, they don't. Whatever gave you that idea? Your father's waiting for us. Come along –" Mother and child swept out of the Inn.

"Rooms," Roxana forestalled Illya's questions.

Upstairs, their party ensconced in two very comfortable rooms, Roxana collapsed backwards onto the bed and lay there looking at nothing in particular while Napoleon made sure Illya's room was all right. He returned to find her just staring up at the ceiling, her eyes unfocused. For a moment, he thought she was just thinking. Then he realized her fingers were twitching uncontrollably.

"Roxana," he called softly.

There was no response. He sighed and reached into his pocket for the small vial he carried. He set it on the bedside table so he could remove his cloak before sitting on the bed beside her. He slid an arm around her shoulders and lifted her into his arms so he could tip a bit of the fluid in the vial into her mouth.

"Roxana."

She twitched.

He wrapped his arms around her, holding tight and called her name a third time. Sometimes he thought the convulsions were harder on him than on her. She wouldn't remember them, only the sore muscles and the exhaustion letting her know it had happened again. He blinked to keep the tears he felt from falling. She stiffened hard in his arms, then relaxed and breathed out with a sigh. Her eyes closed and opened, focusing on him.

"Oh – Oh, no –"

He tightened his grip around her and buried his face in her hair. "It's all right," he kept muttering into the froth of soft blue-black spikes. "It's all right."

She wriggled her arms free to slide them around his still muscular torso and tightened her hold on him. "No, it's not," she corrected him. "But we'll manage. We have so far."

He pulled back a bit to look into her eyes. "Why the hell did you take so long to find me?" he growled.

"You were busy," she answered prosaically and reached up to kiss him. When he resisted, she forged ahead, finally emerging breathless and victorious. "Were you in love with him?" she asked curiously, pretty much destroying the mood she'd engendered.

Napoleon's mouth fell open. That was one of the things she loved about him; that almost fish out of water, trying to grasp the question before he lost the answer entirely look. "What?"

Her laughter did not help. Nor did her burrowing against him. Even fully dressed it was amazing the kind of response she could elicit from him. "Illya. Were you in love with him?"

"No!"

"Not even a little?" She leaned back to look into his eyes. "OK, I know, the job and the time would have blocked that kind of response from surfacing. Especially with your reputation to uphold. Maybe I should ask, do you love him?"

"Roxana ----"

She moved in and rested her head on his shoulder again. "Maybe the question's not quite fair."

"Maybe it's crazy."

Her chuckle entranced him as usual. "I like him. I think – " She sat up again, catching his eyes and his full attention. "What did it feel like, seeing him when you walked in?"

What did it feel like? It felt like he – was home – again. He scowled at her. "It felt like I walked in to a room where Illya was."

She punched him lightly in the chest. "This is serious. How did you feel? I need to know. I – I think it's connected to your dreams. I need a real answer."

His eyes searched her face for what she wanted to hear and found no clues, just an anxious look as she watched him. "Like I was home. Again. Roxana – I see you and it's indescribable. I can be anywhere in the world, and I'm – safe. I'm – home. That's the only way I can describe it."

"And Illya does that as well?"

His thoughts in complete disarray now, he nodded. What the hell did this mean? Was he – sexually? – attracted to Illya?

"It's all right, beloved."

"No, it's not," he echoed her earlier answer.

"This time, it is. Even if it doesn't feel like it. You and I are – fated for lack of a better term. You and he are – also fated. If you both want a sexual side, I think you could find a way to accommodate it, but mostly it's companionship, it's yin and yang. We complete each other." She lifted a hand to stroke his cheek, marveling again at having found him. "You and he do also, on other levels. You belong together."

"Roxana ----"

She silenced him with a soft kiss. "Too much. Too soon. Let it go."

Losing himself in her, he did.

In the room across the hall, Illya sat and inventoried the room. There was something about the place, comfortable and inviting as it was, that raised his hackles. The man at the pub who spoke to him in faultless Romany troubled him. He closed his eyes and reconstructed the scene.

There was a lot that troubled him. The woman who greeted Roxana was the least of his problems as he examined the denizens of the room he could see. So many of them were dressed archaically. So many of them looked like characters out of fantasy. And that faint fluttering feeling around him, the currents that weren't air but something else. That something else was like breathing to the people in the pub. Almost – his strained credulity gave out and Illya dozed off.

End Act I


	3. Chapter 3

London, November 1985

Act Two: "What are you? Where do you come from?"

 

Albus Dumbledore returned to his seat in the Leaky Cauldron to finish his drink and wonder about what had led Roxana back to England and Diagon Alley. He sensed a great deal of good around the American she had married as well as the ability and power in the man, although he was still a novice in its uses. Odd that the American community had let him go untrained. But then, Yanks were a strange lot, all intermarried with different heritages.

He lit a pipe and sucked on it thoughtfully, blowing smoke bubbles in pretty colors as he considered things. While he frowned on the somewhat undisciplined approach the American community showed in missing this man when his training would have been so simple, there was a lot to say for their egalitarian attitude about who should and should not be schooled. It was an attitude he admired and tended to emulate.

As for the young man with Roxana and her husband, he was odd. Albus could sense power, but it was locked away, inaccessible, as though the potential – no, not even that definite. It was as though someone had taken the man's abilities and shifted them away from him, into – some – one – else? He shook his head. No. That was not possible. You could strip a wizard of his mind, but not of his innate ability to do magic. Or could you? What if ---

None of the "what if"s Albus considered were the sort of thing he could imagine any sane wizard doing to another wizard. He tapped out his pipe and sat for a time. How many wizards were there currently roaming England and the Continent that were not technically sane? How many wizards were there who understood the precarious balance between the magical world and the Muggle one? How many of  
them were dead because of those who believed that only the pure bloods should learn to use magic and that Muggles were only for the entertainment of wizards, and for servitude.

He pushed his glasses up his forehead so he could rub his eyes. This war was intensifying and it would get much, much worse before it got better. He only hoped that the rest of the world would not get involved in their fight, that it would stay safe from Voldemort's insanity. He relaxed with a sigh. If something didn't happen soon, all his hopes would be for naught as the rest of the world was slowly drawn into Voldemort's net; just as the wizarding world had been drawn into Hitler's.

`Some are just born bad,' he thought and went out into the night.

Upcountry from London was a shadowed valley, in the valley stood the ancestral home of the Malfoys. Tonight, Lucius Malfoy returned knowing that it was finally his home, not his grandfather's, not his father's, but his. Here his new wife would come in a few weeks to take her place at his side. Narcissa was beautiful, talented, well versed in the various magics she had studied, and wealthy. It was a match much to be desired. Her family's wealth would add to his, if that old squanderer of a father of hers could be kept in rein. Well, he'd seen to his own inheritance, as any good Malfoy would, perhaps he'd turn his attention to hers, assuming the Master didn't have things that needed attention.

He strode into the entry hall shedding cloak, gloves and coat as he went. The loyal troop of house elves managed to catch everything before it hit the ground and swept it away for cleaning and returning to the closets and drawers. Upstairs, Lucius went to his suite of rooms to change for dinner. He was  
satisfied with his clothing, only throwing something heavy at his personal house elf attendant twice during the process of dressing for dinner.

Lucius entered the drawing room, his drawing room, and surveyed his guests. Most of them were his age, they had attended Hogwart's together taking the most OWLS this or any other age had seen in House Slytherin. There were three who were not of the same graduating class. Two he dismissed as hangers on, only there because Voldemort had a use for them. Then there was Severus Snape.

As though aware of Lucius' thoughts, the youth's black eyes found his host. An unbecoming sneer curled the his lip as he lifted his glass in salute to the master of the house. What was the Master thinking when he admitted that one to his ranks? The more the merrier, as the old saw had it, but Snape?

Lucius took a breath and considered things as he allowed the doors to the room to close behind him. The Snape family was, admittedly, as old, if not older than the Malfoy line. Severus had entered Hogwart's knowing more hexes than most seventh year students did. He was a Potions Master before he left Hogwart's at 17. Now, only a few years later, he was still greasy haired, narrow-chested, snaggle-toothed and almost as deadly with his waspish tongue as he was with a well-brewed poison. Looks were not, unfortunately, everything.

The Master had a task for the difficult Snape. If he succeeded, Snape and Malfoy would move up in their Master's organization. If he did not, well, Lucius could always make another opening to move up. The dead did not matter.

Severus watched Malfoy enter the room. He could sense there was something up, something that concerned him. He ignored the usual sneer curling Malfoy's lip as their gazes met. What did he care for the man's shallow attitudes? What mattered was that the Snapes would rise as the Master did. Soon they would assume the mantle of power and control they had known in earlier centuries, and Severus,  
the unlooked for scion of the line, would wield that power. He would show them all.

The task the Master set him was not all he wished. "Muggles?"

"They are powerful, as Muggles go. They're using this new `computer technology' to do many things we have accomplished with magic. The Master wants two things. One: Evaluate their potential as rivals or opponents. Two: If we can turn them into allies long enough to destroy them, do so."

Severus accepted with a curt nod and swept out, his black robe billowing out around his angular frame. Malfoy sat back in his chair, an evil smile curving his lips. He reached for his drink and raised it ever so slightly in salute to the vanished Snape. "Success," he mouthed and downed the wine. "Or not," he  
finished as he tossed the glass to the hovering house elf.

>>>>>>>>>>>>

"Muggles," Severus said with disdain as he strode onto the grounds and then apparated home. The moldering stone pile was dark. Good. He could –

Lights sprang up as he entered the kitchen. An ancient crone with a malevolent eye grabbed his arm and tossed him across the room to fetch up painfully against a rough-hewn stonewall. He scrabbled for his wand as he landed, but the woman was faster, wrenching the slender, elegant stick out of his hand and tossing it aside before latching one gnarled hand around his throat and hauling him to his feet.

"Where have you been?" she demanded. "Out with your fancy friends? Can't stand t'bring `em home, can you? Just can't handle that they might see your Granny? Can't handle being found out, that you're more Hag than Wizard, can you?" The stench from her breath was just about enough to knock him unconscious, coupled with the open handed strikes she was landing on his face, whipping his head back  
and forth, grating it against the rock behind him.

"The Master told me to go. I can't turn him down, now can I?"

"Smart mouth me, will ye?"

The backhanded blow sent him flying into the nearest corner. He lay there in a tangle of robes and waited. There was no reasoning with Granny in this mood. None at all.

"So, ye've been t'see HIM, have ye?"

"No. The orders came through Malfoy. The Master is – busy."

She snorted. "Too busy for the likes of ye, boy. Well, don't just lie there, get ye going. The Master likes not lazy lay-abouts."

Cautiously, Snape pulled himself up off the floor, swallowing the blood from his cut lips. Blood or any sign of pain would just set the crazy old woman off again. Slowly, with what dignity he could muster, he left the room, sliding out of the light into the cold, dark corridors of Snape House.

Once safely in his room, the doors and windows spelled closed and locked, he sat down and shook for a few moments. Sooner or later, she'd kill him, just because he wasn't the ugly monster she was. He stripped out of his torn robe, then the black coat and black silk shirt that lay beneath. The mirror over the washstand frowned at him.

"Don't."

He felt rather than heard the sigh. "Nothing broken. Scrapes up and down your back, bruises on either cheek, cut upper and lower lip, cut right cheek. Nothing you can't drink a potion to cure."

"Good." He washed his face, ignoring the pain it caused. He opened a nearby cupboard and pulled out an assortment of potions to apply to his wounds. By morning, it would be as though nothing happened.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

THRUSH Central England

Demonique Lokisdatter looked around her office with satisfaction. It wasn't often that a woman rose to power inside THRUSH, especially under the current economic strain imposed by that debacle against UNCLE a couple of years earlier. She caught a glimpse of her elegantly coiffed head in the window glass. Hair the color of Lucifer's heart was pulled up into an elegant twist. Her face was flawless, Nefertiti with thinner eyebrows and hellfire burning in her eyes.

There was a knock, polite and respectful, at her office door.

"Enter," she called, her perfectly modulated contralto carrying across the room.

A really bored looking tow-headed blonde stepped into the room, closing the door behind her. "Commander Lokisdatter, we have a communication from the man calling himself Lord Voldemort. His representative should arrive tomorrow morning, about 11am. The man's name is Severus Snape."

"Excellent. You will process him as directed and we will see what, if anything, these delusional "wizards" can offer us."

The blonde nodded her understanding and left the office. If she wondered whether the Commander was biting off more than she could handle, it was not her place to say so.

Severus located the THRUSH headquarters. He considered apparating into the compound, but thought better of it. After all, frightening Muggles, while enjoyable, could be risky if they were prepared for his arrival. He walked up to the gate, waited for the bulky guard to clear his entrance into the installation  
and walked into a nicely laid trap.

Black eyes snapping in anger, he was no match physically for the quartet of men who waylaid him. His instinctive grab for his wand was aborted by a ham-sized hand clamping down on his wrist. The gorilla-like guard applied enough pressure to let him know that bone breaking was not a foreign concept. He  
remained tense. This did not seem to worry the people around him as they shepherded him into a small room and proceeded to strip search him.

Eventually, the exceptionally angry young wizard faced Demonique. She looked him over incuriously. Something about her kept his tongue between his teeth instead of striking out with his usual sarcastic utterances. She walked around him, taking in the excellent tailoring of his clothing, the quality of the cloth, the unbelievable oily-ness of his hair.

"Don't wizards bathe?" Silence greeted her. She met his black gaze directly. "I asked a question," she said softly.

"The answer seemed obvious," he shot back.

Her smile chilled him. "I do not ask questions to hear myself talk. Answer me," she directed with a feline smile, she brushed a finger across his hand.

Severus jerked away from the electric shock the woman inflicted on him. There was no obvious source, but the jolt hurt. "Yes, we bathe, Muggle." There was a world of disdain in his voice.

She flicked the back of his hand again. "Respect, wizard. It is important. Take him."

This time he fought, to no avail. The Muggles were bigger, stronger and much better trained in physical combat than Snape was. He was overpowered and carted off to another room. There he was stripped of his coat and shirt before being strapped to a very cold metal table.

Demonique walked in as the guards left. She took in the angular frame of her victim. His skin was white with sallow undertones. He looked unhealthy. Soon he would be much more so than he was now. The woman removed her suit jacket, revealing fine wires running down the length of her sleeves and ending in open leads on her hands. Severus realized she was wearing some kind of transparent, form fitting glove as she moved to the table. There was a box clipped to the waist of her skirt. She touched a dark spot on the box and touched the table. Severus jerked with the shock.

"Electricity. So much fun. I can tingle your nerves," she touched the box again and brushed her hand along his arm. It raised the fine dark hairs on the back of his arms, but didn't do any harm. "Or I can fry you." Another adjustment, another touch. He yanked against the restraints holding him in a body- arching convulsion. She smiled and leaned on the table, careful not to let wires touch metal. "Now. I think you have a lot to talk about." She met the smoldering gaze. "No? Well, I think we can loosen your tongue. I just have to find the right setting. Not too light, not to strong." She brushed her hand over his thigh. The muscles jerked. "And apply it in just the right place."

Severus gritted his teeth and waited. He had survived the Cruciatus curse, he would survive this. Then he would make the Muggles pay. All of them. Voldemort was right, no Muggle could be allowed to live free.

Unaware of the true nature of her captive, Demonique set about breaking the wizard. It was a long, fruitless session. The stubborn silence of her victim, except for occasional screams ripped from him, incensed her. She wanted to kill the ugly young man, but that would stymie her attempts to get  
more information on wizards and how she could use them.

She stalked out of the room, setting her electrical device to high and went looking for a problem. She found one. She fried it. As the body dropped from her hands, she ordered the guards to dispose of it.

"Commander."

"Yes?"

"We have word that Solo and Kuryakin are on the move. It would seem that their retirement was the red herring THRUSH Central has always thought it."

"What!!!!" Demonique snatched the paper from her assistant's hands and dropped it as the paper began to blacken. She turned down her electrical field and rescued the note. Solo and Kuryakin together? "This is - no! I will not have this. Find them. Kill them. Now."

"Yes, Commander." The pale-eyed blonde watched her superior stalk away. A small, cold smile curved her lips as she went to arrange for the disposal of Solo and Kuryakin.

 

Diagon Alley

Morning came with bird song and noise in the corridors. Illya awoke, realized he was still fully dressed and shook his head. He really was getting too old for this. He looked around for a clock. It was early yet. He supposed Napoleon and his wife - wife - this was taking some work to accept.

He shook his head, shaking out his sleep-rumpled hair. Why was it so hard to accept? Napoleon had finally met a woman he could live with. He felt deflated. He considered what he had seen of Roxana. She was - She was really nothing like Napoleon's ladies. He couldn't put his finger on exactly what made her  
different.

He ticked off her attributes. She was intelligent, obvious to anyone who had dealt with her. She wasn't exactly beautiful, but she was attractive. Her figure was not robust, but it didn't lack. She didn't upset easily. He shook his head again, none of this explained anything.

There was a soft tap at his door.

"Yes?"

"It's me. Hungry?" Napoleon's voice came through the door.

"Yes." He opened the door. "I fell asleep."

"The rumple is easily remedied." Napoleon retrieved his wand from his pocket, flicked it with a quiet word that sounded like Latin and Illya's clothing looked, felt and smelled fresh again.

Illya raised an eyebrow at that.

"Magic," Napoleon explained with something very close to his old grin. "Come on, let's get something to eat."

Illya looked around the hallway. "Roxana?"

"Rough night. She's sleeping in." Something in his tone asked Illya not to inquire further, at least, not yet.

Conversation ceased while the two men applied themselves to breakfast. The food was excellent. Then Napoleon suggested they take a walk.

By day, Diagon Alley was more outrageous than it had seemed in the dusk. Illya tried very hard to take the clothing, the items for sale, even the names of the stores, in stride. Finally, he grabbed Napoleon's arm, stopping the two of them in front of Flourish and Bott's.

"Napoleon -"

Illya's low, dangerous tone brought back memories. Napoleon grinned at him, then gestured to a nearby sweets emporium with a couple of benches and small café style tables in front of it. They sat. Silence. Where the hell to begin?

"Napoleon -"

"I know. I owe you some explanation. I'm just not finding it very easy to start," Napoleon admitted. How did you tell someone about an entire world that existed just beyond the boundaries of the one you knew.

"Roxana?"

"We met. We fell in love. We married. We had a kid. We -"

"A kid???" Illya was - Illya didn't know what he was. For a moment, unreasoning outrage surged through him. How could Napoleon get married and have a child without telling him? He started to voice his anger, but something in the other man's face stopped him. There was sadness behind Napoleon's contentment.

Napoleon looked up from whatever distant vista he was contemplating to see Illya frowning at him. "I'm sorry. It's a lot to take in. I know. Roxana was so unexpected."

"Was she?"

Was that a touch of bitterness in Illya's voice? "Yes. She was. She walked into my office to ask some questions about security. The questions were -- off. They were - innocent and far too knowledgeable at the same time. The invitation to lunch was - " the corner of his mouth quirked up in a familiar, self deprecating smile. "Very normal for me."

Illya nodded his understanding. He did understand. Any personable female would get a lunch invitation out of Napoleon Solo. But Roxana got so much more.

"By the end of lunch I knew I wanted her in my life. Not as a conquest. Not as some fleeting sexual encounter, but as a permanent part. It was like finding a piece of my life I didn't know was missing. I can't explain it even now."

"Marriage. Kid. Kid?"

"Miryam Solo."

"Not Josephine?" Illya asked, trying to lighten his mood.

That got a laugh. "No. Although Roxana suggested it. I don't think she was serious. Miry is turned one, as Roxana puts it."

"Where is she?"

"Home. We have some friends looking after her. The united front godmother brigade. Pray you never have to try to cross them."

Since he considered his chances of meeting them slim, Illya just nodded. "Why?" he finally asked the question that was preying on his mind. One of them, anyway.

"Why? Oh, why did we come? I told you. I needed to make certain you were all right. I didn't think we'd be pulling you into things." He shook his head. "I am sorry about yesterday. I didn't mean to precipitate things."

"You didn't? Blockhead. Why didn't you just call?" That question had been bugging at him all though breakfast.

"I did. Or, at least, I tried. I called a dozen times and kept getting told `Vanya isn't taking calls this week.', or `I'm sorry, he's with a client.' When you didn't call back ---" Napoleon scanned Illya's face. "You  
never got the messages."

"No. I did not." Someone in Vanya's had taken calls for him, from a name on the very short list of people who get to talk to Vanya unless there is a royal fitting going on, and he had heard nothing. No messages. Not even the hint that something was being kept from him. A coldness settled over him. "Napoleon," he  
said tonelessly. "I am sorry for some of the things I have thought in the past few hours. I know you better than that." The cold dropped. "Now, could I get briefed on what is happening? I do not believe ignorance is bliss, nor do I think I am going to get out of this without some understanding of what's going on."

Napoleon sighed. "War."

Illya blinked at him and raised both eyebrows for emphasis.

"I wasn't kidding when I said it was magic. For all those years while we were partnered there were comments about our phenomenal luck. And we had it. We survived and stopped THRUSH longer than any other team or single agent in the UNCLE's history."

Illya shrugged this away. "We were the best."

"Yes, we were. Really think about some of those exploits some time and look at how good and how lucky we were. Sometimes I think it was a form of madness that hid the reality from me."

"Magic?" Illya questioned.

Napoleon chuckled. "Sometimes, when the luck needed a nudge."

"Why didn't you tell me?" The question was deceptively soft voiced.

"I didn't know."

"Napoleon!" Illya exploded.

"I didn't. Roxana says my family must have hidden the talent and then forgotten about it or buried it or something in the quest to be military and political and bright lights in the non-magical world. I never knew until -"

"Until?" the Russian echoed.

Was that a blush? Napoleon looked away, made a couple of throat clearing noises and shook his head. "Roxana figured it out."

That left a world of conjecture available for his companion. "Just 'figured it out'?"

"Yeah. Anyway, she thought it would be a good idea for me to learn some of the basics, and I have." Again, there was that sadness.

Clarity struck. Illya's twinges of jealousy drained away with the realization that there was something deeply hurting Napoleon in the midst of his happiness. "What's wrong with her?" He struck to the heart of the matter.

Napoleon blinked and shut off the deep hurt of his knowledge. "She won't live to see Miry grow up," he admitted. "She's already been touched by the evil here, the war brewing among the wizards. She lost all of her family to the leader of the opposition and isn't certain how she managed to survive, although she  
suspects it had more to do with her relative unimportance in the scheme of things than any unseen strength on her part."

He looked at Illya, wondering what was going on behind the bland facade of his face. "I'm losing her, and there's nothing I can do, nothing magic can do, to stop it." The smile quirked his mouth again. "Funny, she asked me some odd questions last night, but I think I see where she's going."

"Questions?"

"Uh-huh. I'll tell you about it some time. I think the critical one had to do with ------ what?"

Illya's attention was diverted from what Napoleon was saying to a tall, blond haired figure disappearing down a darker alley off the street they were on. "That's one of the men from yesterday."

"Where?"

"There. Long blond hair, dark cloak, long stride. Distinctive looking."

Both men were on their feet and making their way toward the dark mouth of the other alley. Just as Illya eased into the shadows, Napoleon caught the street marker. Nocturn. Nocturn Alley?

"Illya!" he called softly, taking his wand in hand. In the gloom just off Diagon, he found it hard to see. The alley sloped downwards. There were steps here and there as it twisted around various walls. "Illya!" The pale head of his partner was nowhere to be seen. Napoleon was attracting the attention of the  
witches and wizards who were skulking up and down the alleyway. This was a bad place to be.

Illya, following the pale blob that was Lucius Malfoy's gleaming hair, hurried cautiously after the man. He overlooked the magical factor. A hand reached out of a very dark doorway as he passed it, grabbed him and before he could react, he was swooped into a mode of transport seemingly designed to make him giddily uncomfortable. Others have described it as feeling like a giant hook grabbing one just behind the belly button and the surging forward with one bringing up the rear. It was a sickening sensation.

The wind and movement stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Illya was catapulted onto the ground at the feet of a darkly sinister and elegantly clad man. There was a clear circle bordered by a number of dark cloaked men. Illya started to pick himself up off the ground, dusting off his sleeves when a pale, cold hand reached out and fastened on his throat, helping him come erect.

"Illya Kuryakin," the man intoned. His voice was dry and slithery, like the skin of a snake, like the skin of his hand.

Illya shuddered at the contact and the voice. Even his iron control could not keep him from reacting to the touch and the voice. He looked into the coldest, most alien eyes he had ever met in a human being.

Lord Voldemort smiled. He mouthed something softly, the sound like the dry movement of a snake across sand. He switched to English. "Yes. I think you will do nicely as bait." He released his hold, stepped back a few paces and pulled his wand. The subtle intonations of the Imperius Curse combined with wand motion and it was done.

Illya felt odd.

"Come here," Voldemort told him.

Illya was going to smile slightly as he stood unmoving. Panic. His body was paying no attention to his decision. He stepped over to the frightening man. He willed himself to stop, to turn, to run, anything. Instead he stood patiently waiting for Voldemort's next orders and praying that the man would stop smiling like that.

"You see. Everyone is subject to our will. Follow me." He turned and walked through an opening between two of his followers.

Illya walked behind him. His body was no longer his own. He wondered if his mind would remain much longer. How could he have been so foolish as to set out ahead of Napoleon? His partner knew what he was up against, what they were up against. For once, waiting for Napoleon made sense.

Voldemort stopped and turned to face his captive. He ran a long fingered hand over Illya's face and head. "Something - No, not Muggle. What are you? Where do you come from? I will find out. Oh, yes. I will find out."

Luckily, the questions were not aimed at Illya, so he did not answer. Not that he could have given the answers the still nameless man wanted. He waited with patience he did not feel for the man to command him again. For the moment, he did not test the boundaries of his enslavement.

End Act II


	4. Chapter 4

Act 3: "My weapons aren't quite up to snuff."

Napoleon continued his hunt for Illya down the dingy alleyway in spite of his misgivings. His normally keen powers of observation were strained by some of the items in the dark windows of the small shops lining the walkway. There were some things you just didn't want to see while hunting for one of your best friends.

Halfway down the alley, deftly avoiding the unsavory denizens who watched his search, he knew he would not find Illya here. The Russian had been snatched from him. He watched for the other blond head, the one Illya had followed. Nothing. Frustration with himself almost overrode his good sense, but not quite. What he needed was Roxana.

Napoleon left Nocturn Alley walking swiftly. The inn wasn't too far away. He caught Roxana just leaving the lobby. Impulse won over intellect as he caught her in his arms, kissed her soundly and inquired after the health of their daughter.

"She's fine. What's wrong?" Her quick look around caught onto the missing Russian. "Where's Illya?"

"Gone. This way." He took her arm and they walked sedately back the way he had come. There was something in the suddenly hushed atmosphere of the place that made him cautious. Just opposite the opening of the darker alley he stopped.

Roxana's color dropped. She turned on her husband, angry. "Why? What the hell possessed you to go down there?"

Napoleon backed up a step before responding. "I didn't. He was following one of our attackers from yesterday. I wasn't fast enough to stop him. I was just behind him going in – "

"But he's not there, is he? Albus warned us – you did hear him, didn't you?"

That was where he'd heard the name. "Yes, I did," he admitted with a sigh. "I didn't connect it. Rox – I've never been here before. I didn't realize until just now that this was the place your friend talking about."

"Napoleon!" How she could hiss a name with no `s' in it, he didn't know, but she managed. "Leave you alone for five minutes ------" She took a breath and calmed down. "I'm sorry. Any school child around here knows to avoid that place. It supplies things for the Dark Arts."

"And you let it stay open?" he asked curiously.

"Yes, dear. We do. After all, if you don't know what to watch out for, it's difficult to counteract it." They both smiled in understanding. "Hold on. Let's see if I can locate ------" Unobtrusively, she pulled her wand and waved it in time to a low spoken incantation. The wand sparked. "Blocked. Damn. That means  
we're dealing with someone powerful. It also means they knew exactly what they were doing."

"Lured into a trap. I'm an idiot," Napoleon castigated himself.

"No," Roxana countered. "You're out of practice and this is a new playing field."

He regarded her coolly before responding. The "out of practice" comment stung. But she was right, this was not his home ground by a long shot. "My weapons aren't quite up to snuff," he admitted.

"No, but they're getting there. We need help."

With Roxana in the lead, they went looking for Albus Dumbledore. Dumbledore had already left for Hogwart's. Given the situation, Roxana decided the best thing to do was apparate to Hogsmead, rent a couple of brooms and fly into the school.

Napoleon blinked at this. "Are you sure?"

"Of course – Oh. All right, we'll use a Port Key. I keep forgetting you can't apparate."

In spite of the danger his old friend now faced, Napoleon chuckled over Roxana's rueful comment. "It's all right. The day you don't expect me to be more capable than I am, I might just have to worry."

As swiftly as she could, Roxana created a Port Key to take them to Hogsmead, the only completely magical village in England. The small town, looking vaguely like something out of an earlier age, lay a short distance from Hogwart's, the renowned English school of magical arts. They popped in, eliciting no comment from the few early morning denizens of the town who were out and about and hurried to the Three Broomsticks, one of two local pubs.

"Rosemerta!" Roxana greeted the buxom proprietress.

"Roxie! Never thought to see you here again. Someone said you were in the New World!" Rosemerta gave Roxana a hug and then ran an eye over Napoleon. "And who's this?" The question was not as friendly as he was used to from women who looked like this one.

Roxana caught his arm and pulled him over. "This is Napoleon Solo. Which makes me, Mrs. Napoleon Solo," she introduced him with mischief in her eyes.

Rosemerta screamed, not a "help, I'm in trouble" scream, but the kind of scream women who have been friends forever let out when good news comes to them. "Married! Married! And you never let me know! Not a word! Not an owl, not so much as a whisper. You rotten little thing!" At which point she enveloped Roxana in another hug and caught Napoleon in one also. "Mind you," she mock glared up at him. "You'd best treat her right, or you'll be hearing from me!"

"And most of the rest of the English wizarding world," he added with a smile.

Her eyes rounded as she looked from Napoleon to Roxana. "He's an American? Well I never."

"I do hope not." Roxana's bland look crinkled into a giggle. "Well, at least, not with Napoleon, anyway."

"Oh, you!"

They were soon seated at a table with flowing flagons of butterbeer in front of them. Rosemerta, the morning being early, joined them. "So, what brings you here? And don't you dare say a broom!"

"Port Key."

"Roxie!"

Quickly Roxana filled her friend in on why they were in Hogsmeade and in England at all. The mistress of the Three Brooms agreed to send a message to the school. Then all they could do was wait for Dumbledore to meet them, if he could.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

THRUSH Central England

Demonique was beyond livid. The skinny, ugly young man in her custody continued to remain silent, except for screaming in pain. Her orders were to get a handle on the "wizard" abilities to see if they were of use. So far, all she'd proved was that their representative was yet another annoying man. Snape had so far stood proof against every non-invasive pain induction method she had employed against him.

Her frustrations were decimating her male staff. Lerya Porificov was making a note of every death and every perceived misstep Demonique made, although she was making very certain that her commander was unaware of her notes. She watched as the wizard was tortured again and again, noting his stamina, his resistance and even his giving in to the pain. There was much about the man that warranted caution, something her boss was missing entirely. But then, Demonique was well known for her hatred of any man she could not manipulate.

Lerya stole down to the cells where Snape was the only current prisoner to observe him in person. He was indeed a scrawny specimen when relieved of his shirt. Pale skin, almost transluscent over bones that didn't quite stick out. Scars. Too many scars for a man of his apparent age. So, the wizard was abused by someone, probably family. That was good. It was information she could possibly use.

As young as he was, Demonique's opposite number with these wizards trusted him to make a decision, to scope them out and let him know what THRUSH could do for or against them. That made him powerful. Lerya liked powerful. She inched closer to the cell, making sure Snape did not see her, yet. Something drew her toward him now, some indefinable something in the air that made the hair on her arms stand up. Magic. The thing her parents kept telling her did not exist, yet she could feel it around her, feel it coming in waves off some people. Snape had it in full measure. Wizard. Lerya shivered, trying to control her reaction to the strength of the power she could feel. She wanted to move closer, to touch the source, to … Demonique would kill her. Unless … if pain was something Snape was used to … a predatory smile curved her full, pale lips. It was worth a try to satiate the ache he was stoking within her. She withdrew to think and map out a new torture for the wizard.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Malfoy Mansion

Illya awoke from a nightmare to a nightmare. He lay on a sumptuous bed in a dark room lit only by the dim flames of a fireplace. For a moment, he let his eyes adjust to the light. With a jerk, he sat up and moved off the bed, stumbling slightly as he realized he was back in control of his body. Shaking, he sat in a richly brocaded chair. The terror of having his will and body taken away saturated him for a moment.

Now, he was free of the domination … or was he? The air currents only he could feel shifted and roiled around him here. Magic? Napoleon said it was magic. Power that could be manipulated if one knew how. Vague memories tickled at the back of his mind until he gritted his teeth against a growing headache. Where the hell was Napoleon when he needed him?

Never one to await rescue when he could stir up trouble on his own, Illya crossed the room and tried the door, which was locked. He grinned to himself. If they spent their time using magic for things, they probably weren't guarding against plain old human ingenuity.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucius Malfoy and Illya discover that attraction is not always something they can control. Strong sexual content, but not majorly graphic.

Act 4: "You are not a Muggle."

THRUSH Central England

"You want to what?" Demonique's eyes flared in anger.

The blond stood unrepentant and apparently unmoved by her superior's reaction. "Seduce him. Fuck him stupid. You've seen the scars on his back and chest. Just short of frying him with your suit only makes him scream in agony, it does nothing to break him. He will die at your touch before he tells you what you want to know. Pain is not his enemy, he embraces it."

Demonique pouted. "So I should use this body against him?" She ran her elegant hands down her sides. Not that she didn't know how to seduce a man, it was, after all, an important part of a woman's arsenal in a world that thought men ruled. But Demonique had never enjoyed the bedding of her opposition even to assassinate them.

Lerya would have to choose her words carefully now. "Were he your opposite number, perhaps. But this is just an errand boy," she pointed out with a dismissive shrug of her shoulders. "The commander is too valuable to waste time on such a task." Had she pushed it too far? She watched as the THRUSH Satrap  
considered her idea more thoroughly, the dark eyes trailing up and down her assistant as she plotted.

"And to whom would I entrust this … mission?" Demonique purred at last.

"There are several operatives who might fit the bill, depending on his persuasion." Ah, that caught her boss off guard. She had not thought of a man who preferred his own sex. Not that Lerya believed the wizard was of that leaning, but it did have to be considered. She handed Demonique a list of personnel she considered capable of handling the mission. Given her superior's methods, Lerya's name was not on the list.

Demonique perused the names and reasoning before slanting a sidelong look at her assistant. "I do not see your name on this list."

Lerya flushed, praying her reaction was convincing. "Surely, my position is above such … basic interrogation methods," she answered with just a touch of worry coloring her voice. Long pale lashes shielded her eyes long enough to keep her triumph out of her look when she met her superior's gaze.

Demonique gave her another slow up and down look. "He is not my equal, but he is high enough in his master's councils to come here alone. You will … see if your recommendations work. You have two days. He is, after all, not a stupid man."

The matter settled, Demonique turned her attention to other reports, including the preparations for entertaining several of the High Council. That visit would time nicely to coincide with her ability to report on whether they should concentrate on wiping out the upstart "wizards" or use them.

>>>>>>>>>>>

Malfoy Mansion

Down the corridor from the room holding Illya prisoner, Lucius Malfoy tossed and turned searching for sleep and not finding it. He threw himself out of bed, lighting candles with a wave of his hand before stomping over to the window embrasure and collapsing onto the window seat. Cold stars glittered in a dark sky, like diamonds against deep velvet. He thought of Narcissa, graceful curves and pale flesh, restive under his touch. But she was still at her home, miles away and he was here with a houseful of guests he suddenly couldn't stand to have with him and a prisoner held in trust for his Master.

Faugh! Prisoner's should be in the dungeon, not housed in a guest room of antiques and riches. Perhaps he'd best check on his "guest". Muggles. What his Master saw in this pale, middle aged Muggle was beyond him. Sliding into a gorgeous embroidered silk dressing gown, he pulled on slippers and padded  
silently through his house to where Illya should have been incarcerated.

The door was open. Lucius summoned his wand and did a quick search. Ah, there he was, traveling deeper into the mansion. Of course, the man couldn't know how to get out as he wasn't entirely himself when he came in. Lucius moved quickly to retrieve his Master's pet.

Lucius found his quarry standing frozen on the landing staring up at a painting of … Who was that? Oh, yes. Quartinius Adolfus Malfoy. Six centuries of overseeing the Malfoy house from that landing had yet to put a crimp in the painting's life. He was whispering things to the Muggle. That was old Q. to the life, from what Lucius understood. No bellowing or yelling from the old horror, just insidious comments that wormed their way into your soul. Lucius had learned to ignore the painting long ago.

As he reached to grab Illya's arm, he felt what caught his Master's attention. Fingers hovering millimeters from his quarry, he could feel magic flowing around the smaller man, sense the abortive grabs for the power that surrounded Illya. Then he gripped the arm and dragged the Russian with him back down the hallway. Why he didn't use his wand to enforce the drag, Lucius didn't know. Perhaps it  
had to do with the agonizing hollow feel to his captive.

Instead of forcing Illya into the room where he woke up, Lucius pulled the mostly unresisting man back to his own room, shoving him roughly into the old wingback chair in front of the fire before looking for the potion he wanted. Illya's color was already better when Lucius shoved a cup into his hands and  
commanded him to drink.

He could have laughed at the Muggle's suspicious look. "I could force the matter," he reminded the man with a sneer and a flick of his wand. Terror and rebellion showed on the Russian's face, but he threw back the drink and was obviously surprised at how much better he felt immediately.

"Why?"

"Why what?" Lucius shot back irritably. The Muggle's bizarre condition pulled at him, troubled him, annoyed him.

"Why pull me away?" Pale eyes searched the attractive, arrogant face.

"I'm supposed to keep you safe." That was a laugh. A Malfoy keeping a Muggle safe. Yet everything he felt and saw told him this was not a Muggle. He just couldn't figure out exactly what Illya was. Gently, with the calming potion still working, Lucius probed the field around Illya, searching for some indication of what kept the man from his magic, or whether he was a man at all.

Long silent minutes passed, and no answers were forthcoming except that Illya's fine blond hair was gathering a static charge. Lucius reached out to smooth his captive's hair, long fingers trailing down the curve of Illya's cheek while the pale eyes widened, staring up. With a very shark-like grin, Lucius leaned down to capture a mouth that was so very attractive.

Magic swirled through the room, surrounding Lucius and Illya, fading all but mouths and heartbeats away to a distant afterthought. The Russian felt the insistent press of the wizard's tongue against his teeth and opened to the invasion. Somewhere in the back of his mind was shock and denial, but the  
forefront was only concerned with the feel and taste of his companion. He wanted to be touched as he had not been in so very, very long. No, not want, need; desperate consuming need to be touched, to be wanted, to be … loved?

Clothes vanished leaving skin against skin, hardness against hardness, muscles and touch all wrapped up into one flow of sensation. Time, so frequently his enemy, became meaningless as Illya explored the other; as they explored together. Release came in a torrent of shuddering pleasure before boneless  
collapse onto the now wholly disarrayed bed.

Lucius looked up into the stranger's face above him as Illya balanced lightly on hands and knees. Shock ran through him, but his body was having none of that. The light blue eyes were now wholly blue, no white showing, no pupil, unless a shade darker blue in the center could be called that. The broad cheek bones were sharper, giving the Russian's face what Muggles would call an elfin look. And those blue eyes stared as though they would gain entrance to his very soul if he let them. "Illya," he said softly.

The man blinked and subsided against him, nuzzling the side of the long, muscular neck, nibbling lazily. "Da."

"What are you?" Lucius asked cautiously, not wanting to rouse anything that had not already been explored and trying to ignore the insistent hardening he was experiencing from Illya's touch. This was too important to be side tracked by sex, however incredible and satisfying it was.

Illya leaned up to look at his conquest and shrugged. "I'm Vanya, clothing designer of the exclusive. I don't even give seasonal shows, I just am." He caught his lower lip between even white teeth as though there might be something else to say.

"You're not a Wizard?"

"Nyet! I am not ..." The vehemence of his denial surprised them both. Illya frowned and shivered.

Instinct wrapped Lucius's arms around the smaller man, holding him while the wizard considered what had happened between them and that vigorous denial. "Look at me," he whispered, not quite forcing his will on the other. Fear widened Illya's eyes, the blue on blue look fading until he again looked like the man he had always been. "Trust me." It was a command.

The two words hammered at Illya. Trust? Who was he to trust? Every time he trusted he … got burned. Oh, how that hurt. Trusting had brought him to this position. The color rose in his cheeks. It wasn't as though he'd never bedded a man. In the course of duty he had done many things he would not normally do, sex was just one more weapon in his considerable arsenal. Yet he hesitated to draw away, he felt oddly safe being held by this enemy.

Damn. What did he have to lose? "Why should I trust you?"

Good question. Why should he trust Lucius Malfoy, or any Malfoy for that matter. Lucius pondered the question and shook his head. "Because you bear secrets I can help you handle," he answered, not quite as glibly as he would have liked. "You're not a Muggle."

"Muggle," Illya repeated. "You say that word like men from the Southern States say "black". What does it mean?"

"Mortal. Without magic."

Illya snorted. "The majority of the world not only doesn't have magic, they don't believe in it. You should leave them alone." He shifted, pulling away now, more in his own mind as he tried to find a way to turn this encounter to his advantage.

Lucius tightened his grip on Illya's arm. "You are not a Muggle," he repeated, lending force to the statement with his own magic, pushing at the guards that kept the Russian from touching what was by right his. For just a moment, there was a connection, magic to magic and Lucius felt terror, not just that of the man with him, but someone else.

Illya yanked away from Lucius' grasp. Voices echoed in his head, memories long buried surfaced. He fought them down and away, trying to bury that sweet voice, his mother's voice. No. Nyet! He could not remember! He would not! His vision blurred as a blinding headache set in, depriving him of focus and letting the words flow over him before he took refuge in unconsciousness.

Lucius scowled at his captive. Damn. He slid off the bed, dragging on his robe as he did so. He ought to kill the man and be done. Of course, then he'd bear the brunt of his Master's displeasure and they would not draw Roxana and her stupid husband into their trap as planned. With a flick of his recovered wand,  
he placed Illya on the bed and drew up the covers.

He needed to do some research on this half-blood, but not tonight, he decided as a yawn threatened to dislocate his jaw. Drawing on a clean night shirt, Lucius made short work of the evidence of their encounter before settling back into the comfort of his bed beside his unwilling guest. Half-bloods. Muggles. To hell with all of them.


End file.
